


Hold Inside

by Pine



Series: Downfallen [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied Relationships, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pine/pseuds/Pine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Necessity could only temper so much need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Downfallen, Fallen, Falling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/486018).
> 
> Tagged **NonCon** for varied interpretation. Post season 1 setting. Not season 2 compliant.

It was a challenge.

It was difficult to control every movement: to calculate every action, to not lick more, to not bite hard, to trace a pattern with only his claws, to stop grazing his teeth on sensitive skin.

He couldn’t really bring himself to hold back, not when he could see, hear, smell, taste, and feel every minute reaction, every quickening heartbeat and heavy breathing. Skin hummed with anticipation. Scent beckoned gratification. Mouth slightly parted, almost like an invitation.

There was still resistance, but his hold was taking effect, if their brief conversation was any indication. The teenager's voice sounded less sure in the end.

He couldn’t afford to be complacent though. There was much to do and he had to do it correctly. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake to make his claim complete. Still...

Stiles was a challenge. Such a worthy challenge.

And Peter liked it.

* * *

Stiles’ head felt heavy. His whole body felt too warm, and Peter’ body pinning him against the wall was to blame. Too close. Peter was too close for comfort. _No, no, no._ Stiles could feel his own heart beating fast. _This isn’t happening._ He tried to ignore the sensations and concentrated on the faint noise coming from the other room.  
  
With the way things were going, knowing Derek was alive was his only consolation.  
  
Everything was still hazy, but he liked to think of the few moments of clarity as signs of hope. At least, he could still think. Somehow, whatever drug was pumping in his system effectively shut him up.  
  
He could still speak, but he was, by comparison, too silent.  
  
Peter just stayed there, unmoving. Unmovable. The older man’s body against his, head resting on the base of Stiles’ neck. They’ve been that way for a minute or two. Stiles couldn’t tell what Peter wanted to do, or if Peter was actually just playing about the whole ordeal. (It was sick, cruel, and abso-fucking-lutely unfunny, but he wouldn’t put it past the crazed werewolf. After all, one of the first things Peter did after his resurrection was to go to Stiles' bedroom. He even went back a few times afterwards, much to his annoyance and Derek's rage.)  
  
But today was drastically different. In the past six times Peter approached him, the former alpha didn’t even stand any closer than an arm’s length. There was no touching of any sort, unlike the way Peter was grazing his chapped lips over Stiles' collarbone.  
  
A shiver ran through his spine. At this rate, thinking would get harder. Though he was pretty sure that wouldn't be the only one getting ha - _Nooo, absolutely not. Okay, Stiles, focus. Get the bastard to back off. How though._  
  
“Back off wolfie.” Stiles ordered. Or at least, that’s how he tried to say it. His voice sounded... off. Soft.  
  
Peter finally moved from his position, raising his head up. “Okay,” he whispered in Stiles’ ear, before stepping back and walking to the wooden chair, the only furniture in the room.  
  
Stiles blinked in surprise. That was... easy.  
  
The disbelief must have shown on his face, because Peter chuckled in response. Peter removed his leather jacket, draped it on the chair’s back, and sat on the chair again, properly this time around. Stiles watched as Peter crossed his legs and looked back at him. The former alpha didn’t seem particularly displeased with what happened.  
  
Stiles shook his head. There were more things to worry about.  
  
They stayed that way for a few minutes, silence settling between them. It was getting easier to think. It was getting easier to just _be_. The haze he felt earlier was starting to disappear, and the relief was one of the few things that he could appreciate at the moment.  
  
He cleared his throat and found his mouth was a bit more willing to cooperate.  
  
"Can't you just let me go?"  
  
"I can't have you if I do that. And I have to have you now." Peter answered.  
  
"But why now?” He forced himself to speak. “Aren't you getting tired of me saying 'no'?"  
  
"That's not what I hear, Stiles." Peter smirked.  
  
“Doesn't... doesn’t make it less true,” he said, sounding sleepy to his own ears. His eyelids were getting heavy. His entire body felt numb. Damn. Whatever drug Peter gave to him, it was making him trip between clarity, haziness, and the dulling in between. He hasn’t read about any drug like that, so it possibly wasn’t a common drug. He didn’t see any alarming marks on his body (not that he could actually see much) so that was ruled out too. Spells? Could Peter perform magic? Possibly. The man did resurrect himself from the dead. But it was still different. So, a scent? It smelled like sweat - though something did smell sweet - but nothing else. Which was odd, Stiles noticed a few seconds afterwards. What did -  
  
He felt tongue working its way up from his treasure trail.  
  
He heard a moan. Familiar. Sounding too pleased. His mind denied the association of the sound to his own person. (His mouth was open and he could feel the vibrations of his throat. A part of him knew he made the sound and yet: denial - his head felt like it was in the clouds, afloat.)  
  
When he opened his eyes again (he wasn’t even aware about closing them in the first place), Peter was smirking at him. He was close to Stiles again, the haze was threatening to return. His sight was turning black, and the last thought that entered his mind was a question about what happened to agreeing to back off.  
  
The haze cleared after a few seconds (minutes... hours? No, too long. Maybe. Did it really matter though?) Stiles found himself still chained up. Peter was yanking on the chains again. His wrists were sore from the metal hold, but he couldn’t really feel much of the pain. And the pain was getting less with every sucking Peter did on Stiles’ lower lip.  
  
It was so distracting.  
  
There were a few inches between them, and it seemed like Peter had no intention of closing the gap, but Stiles could still feel the older man’s body heat.  
  
The chains rattled as Peter let go, and the heels of Stiles’ feet could reach the ground once again.  
  
There were a hundred thoughts running through his head, trying to figure out something... He was trying to think about... about... thoughts about something important, overridden by the attention.  
  
Peter was paying a lot of attention, and Stiles found himself basking in it.  
  
Claws scratched downward, from Stiles’s throat, to his chest, to the start of his treasure trail, leaving angry red lines. Soft light kisses followed the marks going up, intent to cover every inch of lines made.  
  
Stiles swallowed his own saliva and Peter used the opportunity to follow Stiles’ adam’s apple with a lick. Up to the chin. Kisses along the jaw. Sucking the lobes of his ear. Biting the corner of his mouth. Pushing a thumb against his lips.  
  
Stiles opened his mouth. (Why resist?)  
  
Peter tasted good. Too good. Sweet. Familiarly sweet. Like that particular chocolate one Christmas morning that he was not really supposed to eat because it had alcohol, but did so anyway. A part of his mind was telling him to stop, that it was wrong (and he couldn’t remember why it was wrong...), but he found himself kissing Peter back. Hungrily. Tongue sloppily wrestling against tongue for control. He opened his mouth and pulled his head back. Peter followed, pushing him, just as Stiles expected (just as he wanted). Closer. More to taste.  
  
It wasn’t enough to savour. Stiles wanted more.  
  
He was losing focus, being less aware of his surroundings and of anything else. Or rather, all his focus was directed on Peter’s body against his, hips against hips, mouth against mouth. He was getting hyperaware of every claw scratching against his back, of every teasing thrust of hips did against his. Peter’s was now licking his collarbone and Stiles couldn’t understand why he was getting aroused with being licked _on his fucking collarbone_. But he was... oh his hardening cock was a testament to that. And he really couldn’t find the strength to complain. Every time he opened his mouth, it was either a pathetic whimper or a moan and the trend was alarming.  
  
Well, shouldn’t it? ( _But then_ , his mind unhelpfully supplied, _why should it be?_ )  
  
Stiles tried pulling on the chains again, seeing if they were getting loose. He needed to escape. (Why?) Needed... He needed to... _fuck._  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Peter thrust against him hard and the thin fabric of Stiles’ gray briefs didn’t do much against the sudden heat and friction on his dick. Peter growled against his neck and Stiles could feel it vibrate against his skin.  
  
Peter kneeled and looked up to him, lips close to the garter of Stiles’ underwear. Using his teeth, Peter pulled down on the garter slowly, until Stiles’ cock was free from the restricting garment. Hands moved and mouths moaned and arousal shot up Stiles’ spine and Stiles’ hips bucked against Peter’s tight hold. Peter looked up as he took another long swipe of Stiles’ inner thigh with his tongue. He could feel every lick on his thighs getting hungrier, every gripping on his hips were getting harder. Peter was touching, clawing, kissing, sucking, licking every inch of Stiles’ body except for his cock and -  
  
“You suck,” Stiles blurted out his complaint and Peter stopped mid-lick. Peter looked up at him while he hovered his lips over Stiles’ shaft, pre-cum dripping down the sides. Just close enough to feel the ghost of a kiss. Not close enough to satisfy Stiles’ need. “You really su- oh my god.”  
  
Peter took Stiles’ dick to his mouth all at once and hollowed his cheeks. He pulled up slowly, sucking Stiles' cock off.  
  
"All you had to do was ask."  
  
He could feel Peter’s erection pressed against his thigh. Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but a moan escaped his lips instead. Peter’s hand started pumping Stiles’ cock with a slow and even pace. It was starting to hurt. He didn’t think he could actually be hard for so long. Stiles groaned. His cock’s throbbing and he was aching for release.  
  
Stiles glared at him, or tried at least, “Fuck, P-” Peter’s hand pulled Stiles’ cock roughly, making his breath hitch.  
  
 **“Peter.”**  
  
Peter stilled and looked into Stiles’ eyes, flashing blue. The older man smirked at him, expression absolutely predatory. A few seconds after, the chains clanged against the floor. His arms were free of the binding. His body, having adjusted to being against the wall, lost its balance, making him topple forward just as the rest of the chains fell.  
  
He grabbed what was nearest to him for support: the black shirt which was worn by Peter Hale.  
  
And they stayed in that position, until Stiles tugged on the shirt. Peter removed his shirt, while Stiles’s hands wandered downwards and fumbled on Peter’s pants. After unbuttoning and unzipping it, Stiles pulled the pants down, as carefully as he could manage, now aware that Peter was wearing nothing under it. Stiles’ knees felt weak and the compulsion to kneel and place his mouth on the Peter’s cock... it was strong.  
  
Peter’s hand holding Stiles’ chin up was the only thing that stopped Stiles from heeding.  
  
The werewolf moved in Stiles’ space, forcing the teenager to step backwards and against the wall, “No, Stiles. Not yet.” Stiles could only whimper in complaint, but didn’t resist.  
  
There was a push or two. Stiles let himself be moved, to  the cold wooden floor, writhing under Peter’s body.    
  
Peter worked Stiles’ cock into the back of his throat, swallowing the whole of Stiles’ erection.  
  
He bobbed up and down, Stiles’ cock still deep in his throat, while Stiles just grabbed Peter’s hair and cried out in pleasure. The pace wasn’t too fast and it was even, but he could feel that he was about to cum. Though he’d been practicing holding it in when he masturbates, he was still a virgin. No one else had touched him that way. (Well, one person almost did... Stiles remembered, vaguely.)  
  
And now there is a mouth around the base of his cock and he could feel the wetness and the tightness and just the fucking - “Ah fuck!” Peter hollowed his cheeks again. And Stiles could feel a tear or two rolling down his cheeks. And Peter’s bobbing sped up. _Doesn’t this guy need to breathe?!_  
  
Peter found the right rhythm and Stiles found himself reduced to pleading, incoherent, and without a care. He was on the edge  and about to be pushed over it and he just wanted Peter to let him fall. But every single time he was close, Peter would pull back and reel the pleasure in. It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.  
  
He had to come. There was only so much sensation he could take.  
  
 _"All you had to do was ask."_ Stiles remembered.  
  
 **“Please...”**  
  
And apparently, that was all Stiles needed to say.  
  
Peter stopped and took hold of the back of Stiles’ knees, pushing Stiles’ legs open and up. Peter filled the space between, let go of the knees, and started rubbing his cock against Stiles’, both hands holding their cocks in place.  
  
One. Two. Three rough thrusts of Peter’s hips sent Stiles over the edge, come shooting off on to his chest and abs. Peter continued rubbing himself against Stiles, until the older man came as well, come mixing with Stiles’.  
  
Stiles laid sideways on the wooden floor, facing away from Peter. Spent. Tired.  
  
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel broken at all. (Why he was supposed to feel broken about this in the first place?)  
  
At any rate, he couldn’t deal with the consequences right now. (And he couldn’t remember what those consequences were.) He couldn’t even bring himself to think, not even about the howl he could hear coming from the other room.  
  
A wolf... as far as he could figure it out. It was trying to express something. There was a message there; it was for him, he was sure. (Why?) But he couldn’t understand it. Pleasure was still numbing him down. And Peter licking their combined cum that was slowly dripping  to his side didn’t help clear his mind.  
  
Stiles lay down on his back, making it easier for Peter to lick the pooled cum. He was getting aroused again by the time Peter was done cleaning him up with his tongue.  
  
“Peter,” Stiles tried to say; a soft breath of air escaped his lips instead. Peter crawled on top of him, aligning their bodies perfectly.  
  
“Do you want to taste, Stiles?”  
  
Stiles opened his mouth in response.  
  
Peter placed his tongue in Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles started sucking on it. Slowly. Savoring the saltiness and a hint of foreign sweetness.  
  
Stiles used his remaining strength, one hand pulling on Peter’s hair to keep their heads close, and the other hand’s fingers pushing Peter’s jaw down to have Peter’s mouth as open as possible. Peter wasn’t resisting in the slightest, but Stiles could feel the older man holding his own body carefully to avoid crushing Stiles with his weight.  
  
Their cocks were rubbing and Stiles could feel himself getting harder again, faster this time. It was still sensitive and the friction was making it hurt. But he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it.  
  
Peter pulled his head away, and Stiles gasped for air.  
  
A howl pierced the sound of their heavy breathing. It wasn’t Peter, he was sure. Peter was grazing his fangs against Stiles’ wrist, slightly breaking the skin. Still, it sounded familiar. Another howl echoed, and it sounded like mourning. (But why? Why did the poor wolf mourn?)  
  
Stiles knew he was missing something... _someone_. Was it important? There was a minute internal struggle to recall. But then, if it were, he would remember, right? He had good memory. He wouldn’t forget.  
  
And then came a painful bite on his wrist.  
  
There was nothing he had to remember. _Nothing_ , Stiles was sure.  
  
“ **Mine** ,” Peter whispered in his ear.  
  
Nothing else.  
  
“ **Yours** ,” Stiles responded.  
  
Just this.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle. It's my first time.


End file.
